I’m Gonna Take Some of this to Go

I cannot help but remember the fever dream which was my short time of employment at the Brookings Best Buy as I currently lay in the hospital bed on the precipice of my own death. It is strange as what the mind decides to show you in your final hours, especially with situations that truly had no real impact on life or have anything to do with the situation you would find yourself in.

Upon my 18^th birthday I was ecstatic with my newfound adulthood and wanted to show my family I could be dependent. I have always been good with computers, eventually becoming a computer programmer later, so I naturally thought of the Brookings Best Buy as an exciting place to work.  Had I known what I know now, I would have smacked my younger self across the head with a large two by four. Only fools chase gold, and I would have told myself not to grow up so quickly, to live in the world of ignorance and underage drinking as long as I could. Alas, I was but a naïve child, and so my application was sent via online form at BestBuy.com.

With my competition for the position being stoners and old people who have no sense of technology, I was easily interviewed and hired at the minimum wage as a cashier. I had hoped to work the floor, but apparently you must work yourself up to such a coveted position, a position I would never achieve. 

Why am I dying? What is going to happen to me? My family? Medical debt is the leading cause of bankruptcy. I cannot think of such things as none of those matters, all I can think of is this story of me working at Best Buy. It was a chilly September Saturday afternoon as I followed my routine and my ongoing shift as cashier for the prior month, not knowing about the situation that was about to unfold. My register area was fairly tidy as most register areas are, containing only the credit card machine, hand sanitizer, and theater candy boxes to try to get one last sale from customers. I’d pass the slow times by shaking the Milk-duds boxes to make maraca sounds, and today was no different. While mesmerized by the sounds of the chocolate no one buys, I had failed to realize a customer had come up. In fact, I have no idea where this gentleman had come from since the store was empty, seemingly coming from out of nowhere, like a ghost. But this isn’t a spooky ghost story, so he wasn’t a ghost.

The gentlemen cleared his throat to catch my attention and I apologized to him. He introduced himself as Wendall, and it is a well-known fact that only crazies introduce themselves to the cashiers as there is no need to know their name other than to later tell some insane story about them later. In my current state, I cannot really picture what Wendall looked like other than wearing a grey-tan suit and gold double bridged glasses with blue eyes behind them. He suspiciously held several plastic grocery bags from several establishments in his elbow pit with all sorts of items and food spilling out. He placed a piece of long-outdated technology on the counter for me to ring up and he asked if he could use the hand sanitizer. I, of course, obliged and he took three pumps of the hand sanitizer and began rubbing his hands. I rang up the item, and made a hand motion towards the credit card machine for Wendall to pay. Upon his hands drying, Wendall removed his card and began fiddling with the machine until it made some happy beeping sounds, and the receipt paper began to print out. Wendall took four pumps of hand sanitizer.

At this point, I figured Wendall suffered from germaphobia and halitosis, but as the transaction was drawing towards an end, the thought was very fleeting as I generally don’t care about such trivial, albeit, overuse of hand sanitizer. I must have made a face of disgust or something during this situation, as Wendall proceeded to ask me if the hand sanitizer was free or if he had to pay to use it. I should have known something was off, but I was too young. I handed the receipt to Wendall, and he took five pumps of hand sanitizer while starting into my eyes. 

The ventilator breathes for me now and my consciousness is no longer its own. Reality has slipped from me as the sickness has filled my lungs. I’m not dead… yet. Maybe I should celebrate that? Yes! A reason for everyone to get on the dance floor! As if Wendall was about to go to that dance floor and walk away from my counter, he hesitated and stopped. He began reaching into his pocket and a brief fear came over me that he would produce a gun and expedite my death then and there. But no, what I saw in his hand was a Dixie cup.  No, not that, it was smaller. It was a ketchup cup, a cup crazies take pills from, a cup that every fast-food place uses to squirt ketchup in, and I think you know what happened next. Wendall began pumping hand sanitizer into the ketchup cup. He looked over to me with the most deranged look in his eyes, and he said the words that I have never forgot even up to this point in my life. 

“I’m gonna take some of this to go.”

Wendall licked his dry lips which were probably dry from dehydration from the overuse of hand sanitizer. I watched in horror as he repeatedly pumped the hand sanitizer bottle into the ketchup cup. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I momentarily looked away to see if there was another person around, a manager maybe, that also saw what was happening and would put an end to this nonsense. 

If I am truly being honest, I died a long time ago. People can be dead long before their soul leaves their body. Speaking of time, it had been quite some time that Wendall had been at my register and a line began to form. This was one of the first miracles in my life, that this situation was being witnessed by other people. The next customer in line began walking up to the register and tapped Wendall’s shoulder.

               “Excuse me,” said the man.

               “What?” grunted Wendall.

               “You’re using that wrong,” replied the man.

               I felt like I was saved by this random individual in line. He was addressing this situation whereas I had just frozen and stood stupefied. 

               “What do you mean?” snarled Wendall.

               “Here, give me that cup,” replied the man calmly.

               “No! It’s mine!”

               “I’ll give it back.”

               Wendall begrudgingly handed his cup of hand sanitizer to the man. The man quickly inspected the cup, and pinched the lid of the cup with both of his index fingers and thumbs like he was showing off the world’s smallest sweater. He began to pull outward, and the cup’s lip expanded.  He repeated the motion until the ketchup cup resembled a small saucer.

               “See? I saw this on the internet. Now it’s wider and you can fit more on it,” the man said, handing the hand sanitizer back to Wendall. Wendall thanked the man, and he glopped more hand sanitizer onto the saucer, much like the mucus that filled in my alveoli. Unfortunately, my time is near, but so is the end of this story. I hate to have to leave you with a cliffhanger, like on so many cliché stories or television programs, so, I’ll just skip to the end. Wendall retrieved a French fry from one of his various bags, dipped it into the hand sanitizer, ate it, and then I immediately quit.